


In light of recent lights (In the dark)

by orphan_account



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Insecurity, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-World War I, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4370291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seemed as if their entire acquaintance was irritatingly bizarre, but they can't have minded much. They were together after all of it, in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In light of recent lights (In the dark)

_1916._

 

Thomas always got off work at the same time most of the nurses who worked alongside him did. But while he would always head straight to his home after work, the gaggle of nurses would disperse and gleefully run across the common and down the road, where, just at the spot where the village met the forest, stood a grand yet bleak house, with a fenced-in yard. Incidentally, on his walk home, he would pass this house and every day be graced with the saccharine sight of soldiers struggling to stick flowers through the square holes in the wired fence, or find lovers pressing their palms together with the pleated fence in between.

 

On a particularly fresh, early-October night, let off duty late but with enough time to prepare for next morning's imminent arrival of more wounded soldiers, the girls raced out of the hospital. They ran over to the fence, and even after lights-out, they could find their way to it and the eager, loving hands of the soldiers, and be reunited with their sweethearts.

Most of the soldiers had snuck out to wait for a girl, or two.

Hopeful whispers and wistful sighs soon filled the air around him.

 

_"John! John!"_

 

Thomas lit up and took a long drag, wishing none of them were there, wishing he could run his hand idly over the chain-linked fence as he walked beside it - partly for guidance in that utter darkness. He walked on the other side of the road, very mindful of the romantic incantations which helped him steer clear of those people he could not properly see.

 

_"Walter, where are you?"_

 

Some soldiers had apparently not shown up or were too tired to stay up and out.

 

He exhaled slowly, trudging along the road until the voices were as quiet as the wind that dashed past.

 

 _"Are you there?"_ was very audible, for it was a shrill, desperate shout. It made Thomas felt slightly sorry for the girl.

As he walked further, the crowd was thinning out until they were all far behind him, but the yard was long, and therefore the fence long. Both Thomas and the fence continued down the road. He walked in silence, a spring in his step. As he got to the darkest part of the road, where the trees loomed over him, he wished to run until he met the patch of moonlight that shone like a beacon where the forest wasn't as thick and he knew the illuminated road would lead him right to Downton.

 

Too focused on his cigarette and lost in thoughts about nothing in particular, he almost stumbled into the ditch that separated the fields of poppy infested thicket from the black road. The invisible moon was no help - obscured by something uncertain - whether it was the tips of the tall trees or some dark cloud - Thomas didn’t know. The road curved into the small forest there, he could see it clearly as the moonlight was allowed to seep through and cast pale blue light on a part of his path. The patch of road he was on was, however, as black as a widow’s frock.

Thomas let a particularly vile curse slip when his foot slid on the wet grass at the incline of the ditch.

 

“Is someone there?” a voice came from the other side of the road.

 

Thomas started, his eyes darting round until he noticed the silhouette of a man against the indigo of the sky, constrained by the black criss-cross of the shadowed fence.

 

“Are you alright?” the voice came again and Thomas stuck his cigarette in his mouth to straighten his uniform out before he warily moved toward the fence.

 

“I am, thank you,” he spoke breathlessly.

 

“Oh,” the mystery man laughed, “I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you - I must look quite mad just standing here in the dark.”

 

Thomas didn’t think him mad at all - he’d spoken to many a soldier in what was undoubtedly the same situation - he must have been waiting for a sweetheart who’d never shown up.

“I can’t really say you look much like anything, here, in the dark - “ Thomas said lightly, making the sweet sound of the soldier’s laughter fill the air again. A strange, melancholic feeling gripped at Thomas’ heart - he was about to, out of some inexplicable curiosity, ask the soldier about the girl who’d failed to show up, when the soldier spoke:

 

“Can I have your cigarette?” it sounded like he’d nervously blurted it out, and then cowered in embarrassment.

 

“Pardon?” Thomas asked softly, nearing the fence so he was right in front of it.

 

“Uh, sorry,” he could see the soldier shift sheepishly, “Only that I’ve lost my lighter -“ he elaborated, and if Thomas could see him, he’d be able to confirm that what the soldier held was a cigarette, but guessing that it was a cigarette was enough to deduce what the soldier intention was.

 

“Oh, ‘course,” Thomas muttered, leaning in. He had just started to bring his hand up to pass the cigarette when the soldier leaned in, almost completely closing the space between them, pressing his chest to the fence - his cigarette between his lips, conveniently poking through one of the spaces in the fence.

Thomas’ hand dropped immediately and he inched closer to connect the tips of their cigarettes. The soldier inhaled, dragging the flame from the tip of Thomas’ to the tip of his own cigarette.

Thomas froze as he did it - he was close enough to smell the man even over the smell of the cigarette, but it was still too dark for him to see the man’s face, and he practically ached to see it. He could notice only shadows moving - the man’s nimble fingers as he held the cigarette in place, his hand so close to Thomas’ cheek and yet fenced in with the rest of him; he could swear that the soldier was looking up at him even though the air was damp with ink, or the lack of luminosity made it seem so. The cigarette cherries failed to illuminate anything. He wondered if the soldier’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but feared there’s only so much eyes can adjust to.

 

Though Thomas couldn’t see, he could feel the soldier in front of him, leaning in, so close that the cherries of their cigarettes almost stood connected in a bizarre kiss. He could smell him, taste the slightly different quality of smoke that emanated from the soldier’s cigarette and practically hear his infuriating, polished Oxford accent in the soft breaths that dared pass through the grand sieve of the fence. After a few daring moments of letting himself enjoy it, Thomas stepped back reluctantly.

 

“Won’t you have a cigarette with me?” the soldier said after he’d pulled away, delightedly puffing at his cigarette.

 

The shaky voice made Thomas pause, his mouth open in a stifled attempt to offer some parting words.

 

“I’m Edward,” the soldier added quickly, a cordial smile audible in his voice.

 

For a moment, Corporal Barrow forgot his title and spoke through a slight smile, “I’m Thomas.”

 

“Thomas,” Edward repeated contentedly, “I like your accent.”

 

Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. Truthfully, he couldn’t return the compliment - he’d come to associate the dreary posh accent, utilized by the soldier, with everything he’d known to hate, but somehow he could not hate the soldier, neither his voice nor his accent. Maybe Edward was a particular flavour of posh Thomas could tolerate.

 

“I’m afraid that’s the only thing you can say you like about me,” Thomas said, attempting cheek, “Does feel like we’re just two voices, floating in the night-“ he dramatized, making the soldier laugh again and revelling in it.

 

“Please,” the soldier said, half through a laugh and half through a puff of smoke, “I’m sure you look very smart as well. Certainly seem to cut a dashing figure, though I must admit, I can’t see a bloody thing.”

 

Thomas was not often thankful to God, but he recognized that they must have been on his side when they veiled him with the thick darkness of the night which helped hide his embarrassing, scalding blush.

 

He could hear Edward inhale before speaking again, “Where do you work?”

 

Thomas relaxed and didn’t let himself pretend he had anywhere else to be. Maybe it was the darkness or the time of the night that made it easier to decidedly and unabashedly enjoy this cigarette. Maybe another one, if Edward was up for it.

“The hospital,” Thomas said, tapping the cigarette lightly against the fence, cursing inwardly every time the air moved to burn a bit more of it away. He imagined Edward’s eyebrows raising in obvious interest, though he had no idea how they looked and where exactly they stood perched on his lovely face (undoubtedly lovely; such a nice voice, such a tall, yet demure stance and such a seemingly wonderful character could simply not have been paired with ill-favoured features of the face).

“I was invalided home not long ago,” Thomas added by way of explaining, content with the wild fantasy that Edward was as interested in him as he was in Edward.

 

“You’ve been in battle?” Edward asked, perking up in interest, though his shoulders tensed.

 

Thomas noticed it, and replied curtly, carefully: “Yes.”

 

“I’m to be sent to France next week,” Edward said quietly, apprehensive and surprisingly lacking the tone of faux, or in some cases actual, stupid, pride and courage usually found in soldiers who’d never stepped onto the battlefield. Perhaps he was, like Thomas, made to speak more easily by the dark and the quiet of the night. It’s impossible to intone just how much being invisible could attribute to the loosening of one’s tongue.

And though they were invisible to the rest of the world, and Thomas could not see Edward no matter how hard he tried to adjust to the darkness, he felt as though Edward was becoming more visible to him - and only to him - and Thomas knew Edward was being candid as he spoke: “I don’t have to ask you to know it was hell. You seem like a rational man, with no false, patriotic pretence of what this war is, what it will entail… The mindless destruction, of nature, the innocent people…” he mumbled, righteously indignant. “It must sound like I’m blowing it out of proportion - “

 

“You’re not,” Thomas said bluntly.

 

“Everyone in this damned house seems to think so,” he muttered, distracting himself with flicking ash as if not to get angry, “They’re all so… Excited. Telling their girls they’ll either be coming home with their shield or on it, and it really seems like they wouldn’t care - as long as it’s honourable,” he spat the word as if it left a vile taste in his mouth. “My precious brother’s volunteered to go among the first, soon as it started, and left his wife and child to keep warm by a candle. Always the first to go, to kill, to honour his land - while his wife writes to me to send her some money for bread.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said after a while, unsure of what else to say.

 

Edward gave a short laugh, “I don’t mind it - I mean, I like Agatha and little Sam. I’m only worried what would have happened to them without me, what could happen if I die in the war. My brother’s a prick.”

 

Thomas’ lips twitched in an involuntary, sad smile. He wished he could offer Edward some reassurance, but didn’t want to lie, and couldn’t convey his compassion with a look - it would get lost in the darkness that separated them.

Liking his brother’s wife seemed like a quality topic for a bodice-ripper, and though any promise of drama excited Thomas, he was hoping that the soldier didn’t hate the brother because he fancied the wife - for a reason that was slowly becoming apparent. Instead of asking about it outright, he latched onto something the soldier’d mentioned at the beginning of his little speech.

 

“And what are you telling your girl?” he asked daringly.

 

Edward laughed quietly, the silhouette of his head bowed as if to suggest he was looking at the floor. “No girls for me, I’m afraid.”

 

The pace of Thomas’ heartbeat quickened almost painfully. “You don’t seem terribly ugly,” Thomas ribbed, but pressed his lips into an embarrassed smile after he’d let the words leave his lips. The soldier laughed a bit louder, though, and the fear within Thomas that he’d revealed too much of what he thought of his lovely person dissolved.

 

“I don’t think I am,” the soldier said matter-of-factly.

 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Thomas mumbled with a smile. The cigarette had burned dangerously quickly in his hand. When it threatened to scorch his fingers, he dropped it and trod on it, pulling at the hem of his jacket slightly as if to fix the way it looked on him. He realized that all around them had gone silent, the loving whispers down the road seemed to have died down sometime during their talk.

“I should go,” Thomas said, because no matter how much he didn’t want to, he needed to.

 

“Ah, right,” Edward said, lowering his cigarette. Thomas sought his gaze in the dark, struggling to see, to have his gaze meet those undoubtedly beautiful eyes. But he couldn’t see a thing.

 

“Have a good night,” he said, not quite ready to take a step back.

 

“Goodnight, Thomas,” Edward said warmly, sticking a few fingers through a hole in the fence, seeking Thomas’ hand. The fence prevented anything similar to a handshake, but Thomas met him halfway and brushed his fingers against Edward’s, keeping them there for a few moments.

 

Thomas nodded and turned to walk away.

 

“Thomas-“ was all it took for him to pause and immediately turn back around.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

 

Thomas smiled, “I don’t know. Maybe, if the moon feels up to it.”

 

Edward laughed again. “I’ll wait for you.”

 

Thomas nodded, “We’ll talk tomorrow, then,” he said, because that was one thing he was certain of - he’d hear him tomorrow.

 

Thomas stalked off, turning around to see the the soldier’s departing form.

 

It wasn’t the darkness, nor the time of the night that had made Thomas stay for a cigarette. And Thomas didn’t need to see Edward to know that he was completely smitten with him.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, though it was as late as ever when he got off work, Thomas felt oddly energized - jittery, even - and happy. He almost ran out of the hospital, across the common and down the road, slowing his step but still walking briskly once he’d reached the happy couples huddled about the tall fence. He followed the few nurses that got off at the same time as him at an appropriate distance. From afar, while the moon was still on his side, he could barely make out the edge of the fence, and he thought he could see a figure standing in the shadow. His pace quickened inadvertently, and he watched the pale moon slink back behind the treetops, as they neared and loomed over the road, bathing it in black. Even with his vision obscured, Thomas found the edge of the estate, partly guided by a sweet voice that came from behind the fence.

 

“Thomas?” the voice sounded resigned.

 

“Good evening,” Thomas replied, smiling fondly. The tone of Edward’s voice struck him as endearingly odd, “Did you tell that to everyone who passed?”

 

There was a quiet moment, in which only the soft shuffling of Edward’s feet was heard. “N-no,” he muttered, making Thomas grin.

 

Thomas made his way over, right till he was in front of Edward, and offered that they smoke a cigarette, rifling through his pockets for his pack.

 

Edward tapped the chain-linked fence nervously, playing with a stray wire that had coiled out of the iron pleather toward him. “Haven’t got any cigarettes, I’m afraid,” Edward said, misinterpreting Thomas’ intention of sharing. He neared the fence, his hand dropping for the side. “Traded them all in for,” he trailed off, mumbling “never mind” softly.

 

Thomas pulled one out of the pack slightly and stuck it through the fence for Edward to pluck out. “You’ve got one right here,” he said kindly, “And what’d you trade them for?” he asked in an uncharacteristically unabashed display of curiosity.

 

“Thanks,” Edward was smiling - Thomas could hear it in his voice - “You’ll see,” he added.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He pocketed the cigarettes and sought his lighter.

 

“Tell me about the war, then,” Edward offered as a way to begin conversing, “What am I to expect?”

 

Edward must not have been expecting the answer he got. “I can’t find my lighter.”

 

Thomas could hear him scrambling to retrieve his own. “It was why I was here yesterday, you know,” Edward said, “My own lighter. I’d gone for a smoke and then dropped it, could barely find it later,” he said with a quiet laugh as he pushed the lighter through the fence for Thomas to take. “I’m glad of it now. To think I was so annoyed…” he trailed off happily.

 

Thomas was looking down at his hand, though he could barely see it or the lighter in the dark. It felt heavy in his hand, replete with timely revelations. One click, and it would illuminate their little corner. One click, and he would see Edward’s face.

 

“Thomas?”

 

“Edward!” a muffled shout rose from behind Edward. Not a second later, a light went on in one of the windows of the house, and Edward turned around.

 

“Damn!” Edward whispered indignantly. Thomas held out the lighter, leaning against the fence with his gloved hand. “I’ve got to go. Keep the lighter - have your cigarette. You can give it to me tomorrow,” Edward said urgently, pressing the hand that held the unlit cigarette up to Thomas’. He curled his fingers so that he was touching Thomas, and Thomas pressed closer, a makeshift way of holding his hand.

 

“When do you get off work tomorrow?” he asked, focusing only on Thomas, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the commotion.

 

“A bit earlier than today, I reckon,” Thomas answered. The press of Edward’s fingers against his was warm, reassuring, daring.

 

“Same time as them?”

 

Thomas nodded, knowing Edward must have meant the nurses. “Yeah,” he breathed then, knowing that Edward couldn’t see him.

 

“I’ll find out from someone, they always seem to know when the nurses get off…” he said, sounding as if he were troubled by having to leave. Thomas was overwhelmed by the urge to tell him it would be alright.

 

“I’ll wait for you. I’ll be here,” Edward said determinedly, “Alright,” he said after a moment, “I should go.”

 

“Right,” Thomas confirmed, lowering his hand, releasing Edward’s fingers from his grip. Indistinct shouting could have been heard from the direction of the house. He was about to bid him a good night when the other man stopped him. “Thomas,” Edward said with a laugh, “Hold on. This is for you,” he stuck something through the fence. Thomas’ left hand rose to meet it - a tough stalk peppered with thorns. He pulled on it, making the wires of the fence polish off a few of the snowy petals. In the dark, the colour was subdued but appeared almost luminescent and Thomas could clearly see the white of the rose.

 

“Cost me twenty cigarettes,” Edward muttered, feigning irritation. Before Thomas could collect the words to thank him, or first cut the bumbling stutter (that was surely to come) in it’s root, Edward spoke again. “Right, I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.” With a nervous glance at the house and a wave of his barely visible hand, he begun to make off. Before Thomas could reply, Edward was running toward the back of the house, away from the commotion and the lights, to sneak back into the house unnoticed.

Thomas turned the flower over in his hand, his heart fluttering like an enclosed bird.

 

* * *

 

 

Thomas ran - embarrassment be damned.

In the etchings of a twilight, he saw everything and even if he hadn’t left the nurses to tail after him, if there was someone to see him, he would have ran anyway. Wouldn’t have wasted a single moment hesitating. Couldn’t have waited a second more than was necessary to finally see Edward.

Once he was on the road that led to the forest, he slowed down, winded. He noticed that most of the soldiers were already waiting by the fence - maybe the previous night’s incident hadn't been a bad one at all - the occasional flower in their hands. Thomas’ heart skipped a beat.

 

In his left hand, almost constantly since the previous night, was the lighter - a silver, plain one, with something that looked like a very intricate letter ‘C’ engraved at the bottom right corner. The rose he had left at Downton, in the room he was lodging in, in a makeshift vase - a pewter cup - on the vanity.

His own white rose might have been left at Downton, but he had - from the bushes in the garden which did not quite belong to him - procure a red one, different in colour but equal in beauty (or so Thomas hoped, he had spent nearly an hour trying to determine which of the roses in the bushes could rival the beauty of the small, wonderful flower he’d received the previous night).

His clear vision seemed to be the source of his plight. In those last seconds of the part of day when the sun was still wholly visible and would just begin to set behind the horizon at any moment, Thomas saw everything. Even later, when its red orb would dip farther behind the greying fields - colouring the sky in light violet, he would have been able to see all the way to the edge of the towering fence.

 

He would see, quite clearly, that there wasn't anyone standing there.

 

He bore down on the worry that rose inside his chest with all his might and pushed it into its end. He had no reason to worry. He could wait for Edward once, if the man had waited for him each of the previous times they'd met. He could and would wait for Edward more than once, he'd wait every day, for a week, a month, a year, he realized, and it was quite pathetic, but incurably exciting. To meet one that could capture his attention in such a way, occupy most of his waking thoughts, and only after having spoken a few words, without even showing his face, was to Thomas so wonderful, it was almost fatal.

 

He skipped toward the fence, and waited.

 

After an hour, he began to lose hope.

The moon, that coward, had finally shown its pale face, and it shone finally, like a limelight, on the spot Edward was to walk into. But Edward didn't come. The moon continued its trek across the night sky and paused behind the top of a tall pine.

 

Thomas couldn't move. He knew that the man would not abandon him, and he was overdramatizing, certainly, but if even a sliver of a thought about leaving crossed his mind, he would damn it into oblivion and stand his ground. Edward was late. It was perfectly natural. The soldiers had a certain degree of freedom, but they could not walk about listlessly on every night, he figured.

 

He stood there until the last bit of sunlight was gone and the common was at its darkest. (He'd wait until the Sun found its way to the other way of the skyline, until it rose again and until the star shoo'd the moon away.)

 

Ludicrous ideas about Edward not wanting to show his face would appear as well. Perhaps he would only meet Thomas in the utter darkness, didn't want to be seen because of some malformation; scratch marks, burn marks, scars and bruises. Any and every thing that should make a face ugly merely made Thomas want to laugh - he'd laugh right at them and anyone who thought he could possibly care for any of that more than he cared for Edward.

 

And he cared for him. It was pathetic, the way he clung onto the fence, standing there until the soles of his feet stung, until only one pair of whispers was left.

 

And they were getting closer - no, they really were, Thomas thought, squinting in the general direction of the voices. The two bright cigarette cherries which could be seen as the pair moved closer confirmed to him that he wasn't being delusional. The soft cling-clang as they ran their hands along the ribbed fence, their hands touching through the chain-link and the quick patter of their feet on the dirt - on the road - and on the grass - on the other side of the fence, only served to cement the notion that he was about to have company.

 

_"He won't think it weird - ?"_

_"Honestly, Stephen, he's Edward's friend -"_

_"You're right, if he didn't think Edward weird..."_

 

 _"Stephen!"_ the voice which was distinctly female said in mock astonishment. _"Such talk about your best friend, really - "_ she giggled. The giggle quickly died down when she realized she was standing virtually in front of Thomas.

 

It was quiet for a moment, and Thomas coiled two of his fingers around one of the wires in the fence. It was strange, him being able to hear these people breathing, but not being able to see their faces.

"Good evening," the boy started. Thomas noted that he sounded younger than Edward, but not by much - and what made him sound younger could have been the sheepish way he delivered this mundane phrase to a stranger.

 

"Good evening" the girl repeated, and she sounded familiar. She sounded like she knew she would be familiar, she must have recognized Thomas as Corporal Barrow, a colleague.

 

"Hello," Thomas uttered, "Is anything the matter?" was the first thing he thought to ask. Completely bewildered, he clung onto the fence as if it would entrust him with the answer to the mystery of the reason these two people had decided to speak to him. His brow furrowed, though it must not have been of importance to these people, who could not see him: "María, is it?" he asked, suddenly realizing the girl in front of him was one of the more memorable nurses who worked with him.

 

"Corporal," she confirmed with an acknowledgement, a smile audible in her voice.

 

"I'm Stephen," the boy said quickly, and Thomas thought he could hear the rustle of his uniform as if he was going to extend a hand for Thomas to shake, but he dropped it quickly when he realised that between them stood the fence. The moon peeked from behind the tree it had temporarily hidden behind, and the difference that bit of light made was amazing. Thomas could see their bright eyes and the faint outlines of their faces, blue in the night.

 

"Thomas," Thomas said and took a drag of his cigarette.

 

"Have you got a lighter?" the boy asked then, and Thomas nodded before muttering a "Yes" and providing him with the lighter.

 

"Thank you," the boy said, and when he went to light his cigarette, Thomas could clearly see his face - pale and broad in the light, but nicely chiselled, framed by the soft waves atop his forehead, a thick moustache atop his lips. He definitely looked older than he sounded, and the girl looked younger, more shy, the way she seemed to shrink (perhaps it was the cold) where she stood, the only thing that betrayed her age was the fact that Thomas knew it - she was in her early twenties.

It was an undisputed fact that a woman was in her prime at this age, as far as beauty was concerned, and María did possess all the beauty and grace one could have expected from a woman her age. Her dark face, brought into the picture as Stephen lit her cigarette, glowed with mellow elegance. Her eyes, her skin, her hair; everything soft and dark, her cheeks flushed because of the cold or perhaps the affection she felt for the clumsy, tall boy who'd almost burnt his fingers twice as he tried to light her cigarette through one of the holes in the fence.

María's wide, brown eyes travelled down to the rose Thomas was holding, and with a barely contained smile, she quickly glanced up.

 

"Thank you," it took Thomas a moment to realize that María was speaking to him, her hand nudging his arm to alert him to the fact that she was holding Edward's lighter out in front of him. He took it and murmured, "Think nothing of it," and a second later María spoke again, this time sounding as nervous as Stephen.

 

"It's not exactly what we came here for. The light, I mean," she said quickly, "It might not be my place, but... Are you waiting for someone?"

The couple sheepishly shuffled closer to each other, shooting secretive glances in between them, knowing that if they whispered they'd be heard and trying to convey whatever they could with a look.

 

After a reassuring nod from Stephen, María looked right at Thomas, anticipating the answer. Thomas nodded, but the curious gaze of the girl made him utter an affirmation as well.

 

"Yes."

 

That was when the boy spoke, "It's Edward, isn't it? The man you're waiting for?"

 

Thomas nodded, and he knew they caught it.

 

He knew something was wrong as soon as the beginnings of a sad smile etched itself onto María's face.

"Is something wrong?" it wasn't superfluous to ask, especially since it troubled him greatly. No matter how much it would have ached to hear the unimaginable, that they wouldn't have the week, that Edward had already gone - he needed to know. "Has something happened to him?"

 

"He's been sent up," María said quietly.

 

Dread crept up Thomas' body - he had known, right from the start, when Edward hadn't been waiting for him by the fence, that he had been prevented by something unavoidable. But to hear it spoken so bluntly, to be presented with the awful truth by the lovely voice of this young girl was something he couldn't have braced himself for, even if he had known that it was coming.

 

"The Somme," Stephen elaborated, with the voice of a man who mourned the death of a solider who'd not even stepped onto the battlefield yet.

He had probably not made it to France yet, Thomas thought, and the press of reassuring warmth around his heart was comforting. Still bright and fiery with life, Thomas imagined him.

Then the inevitable, uninvited images of Edward's body, still a mystery to Thomas but as vivid as anything, came, torn and mangled in the trenches, blood splattering the dirt, rain washing his valour away.

The dread stopped at Thomas' knees, coiled around them and tightened, almost making them buckle. At the same time, it pressed against his eyelids, heavy and tiresome, and his blue eyes fought against it by welling up with warm water.

 

"Edward told me about you," the way Stephen said 'you' sounded as if he was talking about plural rather than singular, and made Thomas' chest constrict as the dread and worry faded into grief. The way he said it, "told" rather than "has told", made Edward sound like a person of the past, dead, a memory, and Thomas wished he could have argued against Stephen's idea of what the trenches would do to Edward. Whether it registered to him consciously or not, Stephen was certain that Edward would die, and somehow, Thomas had nothing rational to say to make him believe in anything else. He feared for Edward, too, because he had felt, every day for two long years, the terror of war on his own skin. And though that night he would go to bed praying that Edward makes it out alive, he couldn't help the restlessness that came with worry. Edward was exceptional, sent into battle earlier than intended, rid of those few extra days of officer training because there was a shortage of troops on the battlefield, but also because he'd played the part of lieutenant perfectly. He knew that Edward was a man who hated this war, but would not run or hide from it. He'd face it head on, and therein lay the danger - because as Thomas saw it, there was very little that could save a man from the terror of war besides a necessary act of cowardice, or the loss of his life.

He flipped Edward's lighter in his hand and clicked it, illuminating the dark hours of early autumn morning. If Edward wanted out, he thought grimly, he'd have to borrow someone's lighter.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn't sleep the first night.

Against all his best efforts, the white rose by his bedside was beginning to wilt. In a mild panic, in the morning, he took it, picked out a few of the wrinkled petals and placed it in a newspaper, and then beneath a pile of books.

He changed the paper a few times each day, and did this for a week until the rose was dried up, as thin as a sheet of paper, preserved by the hard, dry press of paper.

There were no news from the frontline, that first week.

 

The first time they heard something, it was already November, and a certain Captain Delaney informed them that:

 

_(...) The battle is drawing to an end, but we cannot yet return to our homes, save for a few privileged ones. Winter is setting in early and we're left here to rot in this sludge. One could never have imagined the haste with which trenches get waterlogged, and the water is so cold it's just a degree short of ice. We have lost tremendous amounts of men in October, and here I shall list the names of those who underwent training at Ripon:_

 

Thomas was peeking at the letter over one of the nurses' shoulder as the rest of them huddled about, trying to pick out the names of the men who were dear to them. Shaking, cowering their mouths as their eyes brimmed with tears; or simply pressing their lips into a grim line and consoling their colleagues if they couldn't recognize any of the names on the list. Some were simply there to help the grieving, to hold them if weakness overtook them, to wipe their tears away, and somehow Thomas knew that these women had suffered similar loss before.

It was either the end of a month or the beginning of another when a letter would arrive - Thomas had never taken particular notice of it - and the atmosphere would change gravely. He would catch more nurses crying, talking in hushed tones, staring out into the distance. It wasn't just lovers, sometimes the soldiers were friends, brothers, fathers. Thomas didn't know how long the list usually was, but nevertheless it was too long.

 

There was an Edgar, and the _'Ed-'_ had Thomas' heart up in his throat for a moment. He relaxed, after. No Edward.

 

He agreed to do some of the extra work, for the nurses who were feeling forlorn, nauseous with the number of men lost. They hid their grief well, Thomas thought. He himself had not begun to notice anything pertaining the letters and the lists until it then, when it began to concern him, and he was glad that their superiors didn't seem to be noticing - he felt that perhaps the likes of doctor Clarkson wouldn't have taken so kindly to it.

 

Every night he'd go home, and he'd keep Edward in his thoughts. He'd try to imagine him in that moment, what he was doing, hoping he was bundled up somewhere with a petrol lamp and laughter to lighten up the trenches, hoping he was enjoying a multitude of those out-of-character but ordinary moments during battle.  
He'd replay the moments they'd had together, as well, and would find himself mouthing or smiling along to one of his memories. Those moments would embarrass him, and he'd shake his head at his own silliness, and he'd be so fond of what he had had with Edward that he felt there was nothing to do but cry.

 

Two months went by, and Thomas thought he would have feared forgetting Edward's face, if he had anything to forget, but he had not had the privilege of seeing it. His voice, however, he had heard, but still the fear didn't appear - Edward's voice was permanently etched into his memory. It resonated in his head and Thomas could clearly conjure up his own name in that lovely posh cadence whenever he felt like it.

 

In a drawer by his bed, he kept the lighter and the herbarium (a washed-out, yellowing notebook containing only the single, white flower), and he didn't take them out often. He kept the lighter there in the corner of the wooden drawer, to give to Edward when he came back.

 

He thought of writing more than once, but always was always anxious about either writing or the outcome of it. He did not even know the man's last name, and would have had to check in at the house Edward had completed his officer training in. How would Edward benefit from a 'Merry Christmas, love' from Thomas? And though Edward had been more than perfectly civil to him, Thomas feared that Edward - an accomplished lieutenant, valiant, a born leader - wouldn't have liked to have received any sort of letter from someone like him, even if he'd never got around to showing him his blighty or telling him about the alleged 'cowardly' nature of it.  
They hadn't got around to doing a lot, Thomas concluded. They had spent a mere two days in each other's company.  
Thomas had learnt that sometimes he put more weight into people's actions than was perhaps realistic, especially those of lovely men - it was the trouble of a hopeless romantic such as he was. Edward had perhaps seen the touches and gifts as ordinary, not an attempt at courting a very male corporal.  
Rare were the men that shared Thomas' preferences, he knew that much.

 

Their encounters had for Edward probably not been anything out of the ordinary. A friendly word or two, a short acquaintance. Edward could have completely forgotten him.

 

Thomas never stopped praying for his safe return.

 

* * *

 

 

There had never been as much commotion in the hospital as when nurse Crawley began working there. It was not the woman's fault, she treated the staff with respect, as they had her. It was the family that would fuss around her, insist that parties and dinners were more important than her nights spent in the hospital. It was Tom Branson, who seemingly only noticed Thomas when he saw him around darling Sybil.

 

Thomas had been speaking to Tom off-handedly whilst making a bed and listening to Sybil being persuaded to come home. He was careful to make himself sound cheerful because he felt like it would infuriate Branson, whom he didn't much care for, but it wasn't particularly hard to feign cheerfulness when it came to talking about the job he was lucky enough to get.

 

He had just given Tom a slightly cheeky, lopsided smile when Sybil stuck a small glass with pills in front of him, for him to take.

 

"Can you give lieutenant Courtenay his pills?" she asked in her raspy voice, cracked further under the annoyance and indignation she was feeling for her parents.

 

"Of course I can," Thomas told her promptly, "I'd be glad to," he told Tom Branson, who looked as if the smile he was forcing gave him physical pains.

 

With a nod to the both of them and a feeling they'd be gone by the time he was done, he made his way over to a young man whose eyes had been patched up by Clarkson himself that morning. He didn't know much about him, but he knew that this was Courtenay, just as he knew that it was Riley with the abdomen gunshot wound, Beckett with his leg blown off, and Peterson with the burnt chest.

 

When he could finally put the name to a face, he felt immeasurably sad for the soldier, and initially an immense feeling of pity overtook him.

Yet as he got a proper look at the man, all he could think of was anything besides pity. The man, even rid of his eyesight, was definitely neither a pitiful sight nor, seemingly, a pitiful soul.

The slight, angry pout of the soldier's troubled lips and his nimble fingers gripping the covers made Thomas' heart ache with fondness for this stranger.

Courtenay's eyes had been wholly covered by white cloth like those of Lady Justice herself and Thomas could see less than half of his face, but what he could see looked as if carved out of marble stone; flushed, delicate, beautiful.

 

Thomas set the pills down beneath the light of a small lamp by his bedside and began to pour the lieutenant a glass of water. All of this was audible, Thomas had cunningly tried to make it louder than it would normally have been, and he thought that the man might take the pills himself, that he might take offence at someone administering them to him as many soldiers took offence at any sort of aid they deemed superfluous.

 

"Here are your pills," Thomas spoke, and the man immediately turned his head toward him, as if expecting to see him. He then shook his head slightly, as if reminding himself of something, and turned away, touching the side of the nightstand until he reached the top and the two small glasses. Thomas watched him take those in his hands and take the pills slowly, as he was expected to.

After he was done, the soldier set the glass with water aside and stuck the empty one out for Thomas to take.

 

Thomas took the glass out of his hand and nodded. "Please call anyone if you need anything," he reminded him kindly, and Courtenay nodded, and turned away.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, when the time came for Courtenay to have his pills, they were immediately handed to Thomas.

 

"I don't know what you told him," nurse Parker said, "But yesterday he asked Angela here who the man who gave him his pills was."

 

"Oh?" Thomas asked, amused, and took the pills from her. "What did you say, pray tell?" he asked Angela, one of the younger nurses, who stood by her side.

 

"Asked him if this man were tall, dark and beautiful, of course," she said. Thomas was fond of Angela, he found people who always spoke their mind endlessly fascinating. "What d'you think I told him? Cor-po-ral Bar-row," she said slowly, as if speaking to someone simple, "You're lucky he can't see you," she muttered.

 

"Charming, yeah," María chipped in before Thomas could. Her best friend merely gave her a smug smile.

 

"Dunno why he wanted you of everyone. He hasn't smiled since he got here, though, so maybe he feels you two are kindred spirits," Angela told Thomas, the smile widening victoriously.

 

"He hasn't exactly had much to smile about, now, has he?" Thomas answered smartly, eager to get out of there, but unable to resist a good bickering with Angela. Angela huffed and set one of the blankets she had been folding aside.

 

"Maybe you could give him something to smile about," she then said lewdly, handing the blanket to María who rolled her eyes at the comment, but, much like Thomas, couldn't help but to grin. Both of the girls had somehow, probably seeing the way he looked fretfully at the lists of soldiers lost in battle or the way he spoke about men in general, deduced what the object of his affections was.

 

"Oh, I forgot," she then added in a hushed tone, "You've got a man at war. Be careful, Thomas," she warned teasingly.

 

"Could you take those pills to him today?" Anna Parker appeared from behind him. She shoved a bundle of linen into Angela's hands. "And you, take this to Rowley."

 

"Careful," Angela mouthed to Thomas, and with that she made off.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lieutenant Courtenay was lying on his bed, one of his hands behind his head and one of his feet tucked under the other. He had been dressed in ordinary attire, brown suspenders over a green shirt, his blindfold still in place.

 

 

He looked dashing, even there, lounging on the bed, Thomas thought. And immediately he remembered Angela's teasing remarks, which held inordinate amounts of truth. He thought of Edward, and the knowledge that he could never not think about Edward.

And every time Angela had seen him look at a man for longer that was perhaps necessary, as he admired strong arms, plump lips or the soft waves of short hair, she'd tease him about it without it meaning anything, and it shouldn't have been any different with Courtenay.

 

Except it was, it was the first time in a while that Thomas was worried he could be falling far a man just because he liked the look of him. The first time he felt guilty, because of that man he'd met months ago, that man whom he hoped hadn't forgotten him, but also knew he easily could have. And though he would do his best to make Courtenay's days bearable, his thoughts would always be with Edward, and Edward's lighter would always be in the top drawer of Thomas' nightstand, waiting for his return.

 

"Your pills," Thomas announced when he made it to Courtenay's bed. Courtenay tilted his head upwards, his face so sweetly open, and Thomas nearly fell.

 

"Thank you," Courtenay murmured and sat up, reaching out his hand. Thomas had just placed the pills in his hand when Angela came rushing toward him, a piece of cardboard in her hand.

 

"You forgot his chart," she said, and dashed off before he could have thanked her. When he followed her with his gaze, he saw why she handed it to him so quickly - a man on the other side of the room was looking as if he was about to vomit.

 

"Cheers," he said faintly, to no one in particular, and just then the man emptied the contents of his stomach into a bowl Angela had provided for him. He glanced at Courtenay, who was just swallowing his second pill, and then at the chart.

 

Thomas' eyes widened.

 

_Edward Courtenay._

 

He glanced at the man on the bed who was taking his time in taking the pills, and then back at the sheet of paper in front of him. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the bed left to Courtenay's and attempted to hold onto some of the dizzying information that whizzed through his head.

 

 _Edward, Edward, Edward,_ he thought. He didn't know if this was Edward, and he dared not get his hopes up, since it was, after all, a common name. He had been surprised that he'd not encountered it sooner. He wanted to urge the man to speak, since he didn't know Edward's face, but he knew his voice.

 

Thomas set the chart aside just as Courtenay set the empty glass on the nightstand.

 

Thomas sat there, his hands in his lap, trying to think of something to say, when Courtenay spoke: "Are you there?"

 

It hit Thomas all at once.

 

The _'C'_ engraved into Edward's lighter stood for _Courtenay._

 

 

He stared at him, drinking every visible detail of him in, filling his memories up with visuals. Edward's gentle, warm fingers had been these long, beautiful ones, the outline of shoulders and short hair had represented these wonderful, colourful parts of him. It was overwhelming, and the aching longing accompanied the ache in his heart.

The two parts merged into one, the lovely person in the body of a beautiful man.

Edward.

Thomas was shaking. He wanted to touch him, embrace him, cry with relief.

 

But paralyzed with fear, he could do nothing. It wasn't only the fear that Edward didn't remember him that stopped him, it was also that fact that if he did, they were nothing but acquaintances to him. There was also the great injustice that had been done, and that was that Edward could not see him, while Thomas could see Edward, finally, as clear as day.

 

"I'm here," Thomas said quietly, his throat dry.

 

Edward smiled, and an involuntary tear slid down Thomas' cheek.

"Oh, good," Edward said, sounding relieved and almost happy.

Thomas' breath hitched but he tried his best to hide it. Edward was trying to be cheerful, Thomas could see it - but it was obvious that his dire predicament troubled him in ways that couldn't have been disregarded, which was not a surprise.

 

"The reason I'd inquired about you, well... I was just surprised that a man gave me my pills yesterday," Edward said sheepishly, and if Thomas thought he had a reason to lie, he'd say Edward was lying, and that he was quite bad at it. "I mean, it was you who gave me my medicine, and here I had been, thinking that the only men round here were either the doctor or wounded soldiers."

 

It sounded as if Edward were reciting a pre-constructed story, but he delivered the words easily, Thomas figured it was easier to lie to a stranger. Yet with every syllable, recognition surged through Thomas. Edward resumed the position he had been in when Thomas arrived, relaxing back on the bed.

 

It was Edward, his Edward. Suddenly he wanted to speak - he wiped his tears away before anyone could see him crying and collected himself enough to give an answer, to see if Edward would recognize him for his voice.

 

"I was invalided home and given a position here, sir," he said, as ordinarily as he could. He didn't think that his voice had changed much, though now it was hoarse with unspilt tears. Don't you remember? he wanted to ask.

 

Edward nodded, and Thomas desperately spoke again, though he tried his best not to let the despair show.

 

"What about you, sir?" Thomas asked, his hands in his lap. "What did you do before the war started?" he asked the first thing he could think of just to speak more and give Edward a chance to recognize him, something he hadn't asked him on either of those nights they'd met.

 

As Edward spoke, his mouth now turned down in a frown, Thomas realized that he hadn't recognized him.

 

"I was up at Oxford."

 

Thomas looked at him, his face hard, his eyes focused on Edward as he held back tears.

 

"But I only ever planned to farm. Farm, and shoot, and hunt, and fish."

 

The more Edward spoke, the more real he became, and Thomas' heart broke when he realized that he couldn't tell him anything.

 

"And everything I'll never do again."

 

What would it look like now, if he demanded that Edward remembered something so trivial, when he had more on his mind, when the war had taken his eyesight away?

"You don't know that, sir, with the cases of gas blindness wearing off," Thomas offered, though he himself didn't find it particularly reassuring, and Edward must have noticed.

 

"Rare cases," Edward said exasperatedly, "And much sooner than this. It doesn't help me to be lied to, you know."

 

The conversation escalated so quickly, and Edward soon seemed angry, quite so that it wouldn't have been fitting for Thomas to mention that they had encountered each other once before, in what now seemed like a different life.

 

Edward wasn't there for Thomas' affections. He was there to get better, as best as he could.

 

"I'm finished. And I'd rather face it than dodge it," Edward said, and it hurt Thomas more than anything to hear such a wonderful man speak of himself in such a way.

Thomas had never, no matter how much others insisted that he was one, considered himself a coward. But in that moment, he did what he thought only cowards would do, and left before he'd let Edward hear him cry.

 

* * *

 

 

When Thomas left, Edward was furious. With himself, for the most part. He had driven Thomas away with his bitterness, but it he couldn't have dealt placidly with any of this. Thomas did not remember him, or he chose not to. Who would have wanted to remember a man as maimed, as powerless as him?

Those two silly nights, that had kept him going through the war, could now be forgotten, since the war, much like everything else, was over for him.

Thomas didn't owe him anything. Thomas could afford to forget Edward's unsubtle flirtation, the cigarettes, the flower. Edward would do his best to scratch them out of his mind.

 

Thomas came every day, in the morning and in the evening, to give him his pills. They never spoke, though Edward wanted nothing more for them than to speak, of anything but the essential "Here are your pills," and "Thank you."

And even every one of those words, no matter how insignificant, was a pull at Edward's heart.

 

It was a few days after Edward had recognized Thomas that he finally got to speak to him, because with the usual pills and a pitcher of water, Thomas brought a letter.

 

However, Thomas' melodic voice did little to embellish the words written on the small piece of paper, a letter sent to him by his brother's semi-estranged wife.

 

_"Things cannot be as they were, and whatever you might think, Jack has your best interest at heart-"_

 

"Stop," Edward said, when he couldn't take any more of it.

 

"Who's Jack?" Thomas' voice brought him out of his dark thoughts for a moment, encircling him.

 

"My younger brother..." he said tiredly, "He means to replace me... It's what he's always wanted."

 

In the back of Thomas' mind, a memory arose - he recalled tales of the brother, whom Edward hadn't particularly liked even before this letter, which told him of a new house in York where his brother now lived, his kind, kind brother who was looking to _"put you up, we could take good care of you here, now that you're crippled,"_ and in turn sought only Edward's part of their Devon estate. A small price to pay, really, _"for someone who can't take care of himself."_

 

"Yeah, well-" Thomas began, seeing the distressed expression Edward wore on his face.

 

"I'm sorry," Edward immediately apologized, "I mustn't bore you."

 

Thomas hesitated a bit before speaking, since it wasn't his place to do so, but still felt as if he had to. He might have been a bit more invested in Edward than Edward was in him, but he liked to think he would have supported anyone like that; "Don't let them walk all over you. Gotta fight your corner."

 

Edward's face scrunched up in distress. "What with?"

 

"Your brain!" Thomas said, "You're not a victim - don't let them make you into one."

 

"You know, when you talk like that," Edward said, getting a bit choked up, "I almost believe you." His mouth curled upwards in a grim attempt at a smile.

 

"Well you should believe me," Thomas said, with such certainty, that Edward did. "All my life they've... Pushed me around. Just 'cause I'm different," he added as an afterthought.

 

"How - why are you different?" Edward asked, concern clouding his thoughts.

 

Thomas was quiet for a moment, but then spoke resignedly, "Nevermind. Look," he began again, "I don't know if you're gonna see again or not, but I do know you have to fight back."

 

Edward nodded, and if he had it in himself to smile, he would have. He sought Thomas in the darkness and reached out to have his hand meet Thomas' knee. He squeezed, and Thomas' hand was instantly there, to cover his own with a reassuring warmth.

 

And it was, really, as simple as that. To have another person talk him out of the bad thoughts was a blessing Edward hadn't hoped to have, and to have Thomas Barrow on his side, well, that was what really took the biscuit. With Thomas, the world didn't seem like such a dark place.

 

But what he expected least of all was that not days later, they would try to take Thomas away from him. Or, take him away from Thomas. It hurt the same either way.

 

It was just when he and Thomas were becoming close again. When he realized, that even if Thomas didn't remember their short rendezvous, they were still the two of them, and they shared this mutual attraction to each other, this force that seemed to bring them together like a physical pull. When they walked together, they talked, and it was so easy. He leaned on Thomas both when he needed to and when he didn't, but the feeling of security Thomas gave him wasn't superfluous even when Edward knew exactly where they were going.

 

"Are we alone?" Edward asked on one occasion, when Nurse Crawley had gone home for an emergency dinner at the house and Thomas had stayed behind to walk with Edward.

 

"Relatively," Thomas answered, and Edward could hear the smile in his voice.

 

"Good," Edward said, making Thomas raise an amused eyebrow.

 

"Good?"

 

They were in the back yard of the hospital, back near the entrance to the forest. The warm afternoon sunlight seeped through the branches, the smell wildflowers permeating the air, and Edward held onto Thomas' arm for dear life.

 

"I wanted a moment alone with you. I wanted to thank you. And apologize. I know I must be quite a nuisance," he said, pressing his lips together in an apologetic smile.

 

"Don't even think about it," Thomas said with a grin, "I know you're a man who must want to be able to take care of himself, but, I hope you know that I don't mind taking care of you. I would to it anytime, if you just asked me to," Thomas said sincerely, "Sir," he added then, making Edward snort.

 

"Call me Edward, at least when you can, let me have at least some normalcy in my life. "And thank you, Thomas."

 

"I will," Thomas said, "Even thought normalcy is a bit boring, don't you think, Edward?"

 

Edward smiled. For the first time, Thomas could see his bright teeth peek out from behind his full lips, and for a moment thought he needed a sit-down.

 

"Thomas," Edward said as a way of confirming and nodded, leaning closer and adjusting his grip on Thomas' arm.

 

"Do you want to head back, _Edward?"_

 

"Let's stay here for a bit," Edward said happily, _"Thomas."_

 

* * *

 

 

Their given names involuntarily became their secret. After the talk at the edge of the woods, every time they were alone, Thomas would alert him to the fact that they were by simply whispering "Edward", his voice ripe with the childish sneakiness. Edward would whisper Thomas' own name back at him, daring, flirtatious.

 

"Thomas?"

 

"Yes, Edward?" Thomas asked in a whisper as they ambled about the yard.

 

"Would you like to hear some blind-man jokes? The men in my room were quite relentless in telling them this morning. And quite loudly, I must add," Edward said, and for a moment Thomas feared that Edward was hurt by this, but then Edward smirked, clever and wily and happy. "I must warn you; more than half of them involve a blind man "not having seen something coming"," he said, and his smirk widened, making Thomas laugh.

 

"Not only offensive, but crass as well, eh? What lewd men, horrific, I tell you, Edward," Thomas said and smiled.

 

Edward was silent then, facing Thomas' general direction. Thomas' brow furrowed and he was worried that something had gone wrong, but Edward still had a small, lopsided smile on his face.

 

"Thomas?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"Thomas, have I ever told you how much I like your voice?"

 

What if he'd said yes? Would it really have been that bad? Yes. When you first met me. Yes, when I noticed your voice as well, your accent. Yes, when I fell in love with it. With you.

 

"No, I don't think you have," Thomas said, and then added lightly, fondly, "Edward."

 

Edward's smile fell but was back up in a moment. "Now you know," he nodded, "Thomas."

 

* * *

 

 

Edward felt a, short-lasting, surge of pride when Dr. Clarkson commended his newfound skill of walking with the blind-man's cane.

But when he was told that he was not sick, and therefore had no place in a hospital, gloomy thoughts swarmed in his head.

He was told that he would be moved, and as soon as it was possible.

Faced with this fact for the first time, when he was bluntly told of it by Dr. Clarkson, his throat closed up, and he struggled to find the words to argue against it. His _saviours_ \- Thomas and Sybil, had only seemingly got themselves into trouble when they tried to fight Edward's battles.

 

Thomas came over to his bed to talk to him right after he had spoken to the doctor, only to tell him that there was nothing they could do.

_But it's not so bad, yeah? You'll learn to live on your own, make a life for yourself. Go back home, let the staff take care of you - I'd visit, if you wanted me to. Tell Jack to bugger off. It'll be alright._

 

He would have been reluctant to leave when the man he loved was just Corporal Barrow to him, but now he was _Thomas,_ beautiful, wonderful Thomas, without whom Edward wouldn't know how to cope.

 

That was where his thoughts started off, and after a long day of thinking it over, he had driven himself into the gutter. He had realized that he was well and truly helpless. It was the sort of helplessness he'd felt before, only infinitely multiplied. There were no words to save him. In a perfect world, a brain would have been enough to fight back with. In this world, you needed to be, well, affluent - but more than anything, you needed to be able-bodied.

In a perfect world, he would have a future with Thomas, a public and unabashed, requited love. In this world, there was no future for him at all.

 

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" Thomas whispered as he handed him his last pills for that evening. "There's something I've been meaning to give you."

 

"Yes," Edward forced himself to smile, "Thomas."

 

Thomas' smile was instant, it was as if Edward was capable of summoning it just by uttering that one word.

 

"I won't let them take you away," Thomas said, and then stuttered, "I mean, that is, if you wish to stay-"

 

"You know I don't want to go," Edward said with a sad smile, shaking his head, "But I'm afraid there's really nothing you can do. My brother, he wrote the hospital, he's arranged for me to be transferred, and since it was part of Clarkson's plan originally... I don't think I stand a chance."

 

Thomas nodded, "I'll try and sort something out, and even if you're moved... Don't worry."

 

"I'm not worried," Edward said, his voice wavering. "Go, get some rest."

 

"I'm supposed to get in here for the night shift tomorrow," Thomas said irritatedly, "I'll come earlier, though. To wish you good-bye, if nothing."

 

"Tomorrow, then," Edward nodded, extending a hand.

 

Thomas took it, squeezing gently, "Tomorrow, Edward."

 

Edward smiled. "Thomas."

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, already in a dark place, both literally and mentally, Edward would make a decision.

 

He was not the only one. Thomas had literally forgotten about the lighter in his drawer until earlier that day, when he had accidentally opened one of his drawers and spotted it in the corner. He didn't take it to work with him immediately, but the thought of giving it to Edward sat festering in his mind the entire day. The decision of giving him the lighter was not hard to make - Edward and him were good friends now. It seemed as if, after they got over some initial awkwardness, they'd picked up right where they left off. But Thomas still hadn't asked if Edward remembered those two evenings they'd spent together right before he'd been sent up. By returning his lighter to him, he could remind him in a delicate way and with the way they talked nowadays, easy and joyful, there was no doubt that a memory of those two evenings would turn into an anecdote of sorts. He could already picture it, already hear Edward's pleased laughter as he remembered that they knew each other from before.

 

There was another decision Thomas had made that evening, albeit it was slightly more risky and harder to make. He had imagined to himself they way that he'd do it - the next day, on their last walk together, when they were far away from the hospital and the people, he would ask Edward to sit down with him and after giving him the lighter, he would finally give him a fresh, red rose, and tell him about everything he felt for him.

He supposed it wasn't really necessary to tell it in such fine detail as he imagined himself saying it - he wasn't obliged to tell Edward of how beautiful he was, how each of his movements was so perfect in it's nonchalance, how the sound of his laughter made Thomas burn with the most lovable flame inside.

In the heat of the moment, he would probably forget to say everything he wanted to. And by the way, the list of Edward's virtues was incredibly long to begin with.

 

But he hoped he could say enough for Edward to gather just how much he loved him.

 

He would kiss him, then, if Edward wanted him to - and hold him close. He would promise to fight for him to stay, or to go with him wherever he wanted to. They would make a life together; Thomas was certain that he was destined to be the one who'd make Edward feel as loved as he deserved to.

* * *

 

 

A razor was not at all hard to acquire. The soldiers in his room were either dead quiet whilst asleep or simply not there, for there were no sounds coming from any corner of the room, but the shelves and nightstands were seemingly overflowing with various paraphernalia. He gathered all the things he could use - a pocket knife, a glass, any bits of broken crockery - and dropped it all into an empty drawer when his fingers were met with a razor blade.

 

A nurse whose voice he'd never heard before got into his room to change the covers on the beds of soldiers discharged, much like he was to be in a few hours.

 

"Hello?" he asked sheepishly, lying back on the bed he had temporarily sat on, with no actual care that it was not his own, hiding the hand that held the razor under the covers.

 

"Yes?" the nurse replied, startled. "Oh, is there anything you need, Sir?"

 

"Am I alone in this room?"

 

"Well, only you and I are here, Sir, if that's what you meant."

 

He nodded and listened to her work. Exhausted, but with the thought of going to sleep nowhere near crossing his mind.

 

The hours passed, and he couldn't seem to find the strength to finally do it.

He thought of Thomas, of course he did, but realized that no person could get him out of what he was in.

It would have been so much easier for him to end it all if it weren't for Thomas, damn him.

 

Edward had always been a man who liked to do things on his own - he used to to everything from hunting his own food to cutting his own hair - and he knew that only he could get himself out of the dark, and there was only one way to do it.

 

It was only when he felt the sunlight on his face that he cut into his hand, bit back a cry, and relaxed back against the sheets.

 

_Thomas. Thomas. Thomas._

 

* * *

 

 

The next day Thomas would arrive at the hospital, and immediately know that something was wrong. And then Angela would tell him - Edward was dead. He would shut himself in the first vacant room he would find, and cry "Edward," until he could barely speak anymore.

 

It's an ineffable, all-encompassing sort of pain. It's selfish, to wish that the person had stayed on this earth a bit longer because of you. And it's the darkest sort of beautiful, the bittersweet feeling of imagining what it would have been like if they were still alive.

 

Thomas knew that if he had not known Edward personally but instead by an objective sort of description, if he was not feeling the effect of his death first-hand, he would still have been sad.

The same cannot be said of a case in which he might have know Edward but didn't love him as ardently. Since in any scenario, it didn't take him too long to warm up to the man.

 

He remembered the night when María and Stephen met him to tell him he was waiting in vain.

 

 

_"Edward told me about you," Stephen said. "In fact, he could not shut up about it."_

_Thomas' cheeks burned with such fervour, he was afraid it could be seen in the dark._

_"I think he really liked you," Stephen said, matter-of-factly._

_"Oh, I - " Thomas began._

_María laughed and swatted the fence playfully, Thomas knew she would have swatted Stephen's shoulder if she were able to. "Don't force it!" she whispered._

_"I'm not forcing anything," he said with a smirk, "I'm just saying."_

_"You're not just saying, you're teasing."_

_"Well, I think it's nice to know when someone fancies you! Flattering, at least."_

_María shook her head and took a puff on her cigarette. "Right. But they can sort it out on their own, if they like each other so much."_

_"But - You know, I just... I want to help. I think this bloke would be great for Edward."_

_"Don't listen to him," María told Thomas, finally including him in the conversation that was partly about him in the first place, "Even if I agree, ignore his teasing."_

_“I’ve known Edward for a long time. My family knew his, which is not important, but I've known him for a long time - I've never heard him talk about anyone as he's talked about Thomas, you know."_

_"Stephen," María said pleadingly, and then continued in a hushed voice, "There's sort of nothing they can do about it now, is there?"_

* * *

 

 

"María."

 

Angela couldn't have come at a worse moment - Robertson had been sick all over himself, and besides the usual clean-up and change of linen María would have to do investigative work, would have to look into exactly why he had been sick. His body had no apparent reason to rebel, and yet he hurled up even the tiniest bit of nourishment she offered him. The scorching fever and the chills certainly didn't help to ease her mind. He was currently being taken care of by another nurse, in a separate room down the hall, kidney dishes and sickness bags on hand. It was all pointing to an infection, something she really didn't need on her hands.

 

"María!" Angela screeched.

 

"What?" María asked in a clipped tone, pulling the pungent sheet off the bed with a bit too much force, making the still viscous vomit spill on the floor. "Ugh!"

 

"María," Angela repeated her name shakily, "I think you should come. It's - It's Thomas' - him - Courtenay -" she stuttered.

 

"What?" María turned around to face her, "What is it?"

 

"I - I think he's dead."

 

"What?"

 

Angela gestured for her to follow with a shaky hand, and when María stood rooted to the spot - looking at Robinson's vacant bed with hesitance and disgust - Angela used the hand to link it with María's and pull her out of the room, down the hall, and to the foot of Courtenay's bed, where he lay in a pile of bloodied sheets, a puddle - nay, a lake - of blood right under the arm he'd sliced open.

 

"Oh my - Ah - Angela... Check his pulse - " María then said, not wasting a second.

 

"I - don't you think I already did? It's not there -"

 

"Check it," María said softly, keeping her voice still. Angela's hand went to his throat and she held three fingers on his pulse point, waiting for a beat.

 

"María, there's noth-" Angela began desperately, eyes watering.

 

"Wait," María said slowly, keeping her voice still as her quick hands worked on a makeshift binding for his slit wrist.

 

"What are you doing? He's -" Angela began, looking at her as she gathered all she needed to properly stitch and bind his arm.

 

"He is clever," María spoke absent-mindedly, "Slit from the wrist upwards. He really wanted to die. If he'd cut horizontally, it would've been easier for me to save him. This way -"

 

She hadn't noticed Angela's incessant, blubbering sobbing of her name.

 

"María, I felt it - his pulse - it's so weak. María, why is it so slow? María-"

 

"We're going to need an empty room," María said after she wound a compression bandage around his cut arm, "And Ann. Sybil - where's Sybil? Did that driver boy come to get her again? Family dinners while her patients are here, ripping themselves apart... Angela? Do you know any rooms that are empty?"

 

"Uh, hold on - I know the one - right next to Dr. Clarkson's office," Angela said, slowly getting over the shock and helping place all of Courtenay's scattered sheets and limbs on the bed so they could wheel him out.

 

"Robinson's there," she replied irritatedly, focusing on the puddle of blood as she tried to gather her thoughts. "The possible-viral-disaster bloke..." she stood for a few moments, and then spoke, having made her decision. "Sod it."

 

"María!"

 

"Take him there, and don't let anyone see you. Especially Clarkson."

 

"What? María, why would I not - " as she spoke, pulling Edward's bed forward a bit, María put the box with the suture kit underneath her arm. Angela gulped, her eyes widening as María dashed past her on her beeline for the door. "Where are you going?" she squeaked out, but all María did was give her a pleading look before running off.

 

 

Angela bent over low, almost crouching, and pushed the bed as swiftly and quietly as she could to the other side of the hall. For a nearly dead person, Edward was lucky, she thought, for even if she didn't know why it was important, María had instructed that they'd better not be seen, and they were not. Maybe it was her own lucky star that had helped them. Maybe thinking about lucky stars was the best way she could deal with this, with the helplessness that came with finally pushing the bed through the secluded door, and waiting, watching the life drain out of a man.

 

María didn't give her a lot of time to despair, she burst through the door not seconds later, clutching a frightening metal box in her hands, the small suture kit balanced on top of it.

"Please tell me what we're doing," Angela said softly, on her feet the moment the door clicked shut behind María.

 

"I couldn't find Ann," María said, winded, "Maybe that's better. I don't know if she'd agree to it. I'm not even positive that we could trust her," she placed the metal box onto the floor and opened it, revealing tubes and needles.

 

"Trust her? Please, why - why can we not tell Dr. Clarkson? And what is that?"

 

"It's equipment we need for the operation. Blood transfusion. It's called the Kimpton-Brown technique. I met a man who spoke to of it to me - we got the equipment sometime last year but Clarskon never thought to utilize it," she handed Angela a pair of scissors and the girl immediately set to cutting up Courtenay's shirt. "He says it's not safe," María said as she pulled an intricate-looking tube out of the box, needles on both ends.

 

"What? Why doesn't he think it's safe?"

 

María sighed and took all she thought she needed and climbed atop the bed, pulling Edward's unharmed hand out of the pile of sheets.

 

"But why are you doing this?" Angela asked desperately. "It's not like he's the first bloke to die - this could be dangerous, I -"

 

"It's important that he lives," María said quickly.

 

"But he wanted to die - I - I don't understand -"

 

"He needs to live," María said fiercely, her eyes watering as she looked at Angela. "Alright?"

 

Angela nodded, and María continued where she left off.

 

"When I stick this in," she told Angela, "You'll have to hold it in place and secure it, fasten it - Come up here," she said and Angela scurried to climb in next to her. "Now, I'll use my right hand to show you where you'll stick the needle in on his end. By the end of it, I might be too weak to work with any of this. I trust you'll be able to take it out. First on my side, then on his. But bandage him first, and nothing too tight."

 

Angela nodded frantically, "Right. Right. Okay."

 

The first part of it went as smoothly as María could have hoped for it to.

 

"They've been doing this in Leeds for almost a decade now. Mostly they do it in casualty clearing stations. When we got the equipment, though, there was a man from London who relaid all the dangers of it to Clarkson," María spoke softly, yet with irritated fervour, looking down at the crimson liquid that flowed freely from one body to another, visible through the clear tube. "Scared him, put him off it. He told him of the case in the Boulogne base from last year - they, uh, tried this on nineteen soldiers," she bit the inside of her cheek, "Fifteen died."

 

María said as if it had scared her too, so Angela gripped her free hand tightly, urging her too look her way. "Listen, those odds seem good. They wouldn't have tried this on anyone who had scabbed knees. They must have done this only on the near goners," she said seriously, but María gave a weak laugh. "Yes!" Angela said reassuringly, "The desperate cases. It's no wonder they..."

 

María nodded, and then sighed, shifting so she could lean against the wall. When she looked up at the ceiling, the first tear escaped her eye. "If those were desperate, this one is flat-out disastrous."

 

"We'll be fine," Angela said, suddenly seeming to perk up.

 

"I'm scared."

 

"This is brilliant."

 

That made María smile, "Listen, this blood will have to flow for a while longer. You should go and get the saline, and a bite of anything for me. Don't let anyone see you - I'd thought that we could put up a sign to warn them of a possible infection spreading, which is still a realistic possibility," she shot a pointed look at the sleeping, clammy Robinson in a bed on the other side of the room, "But that might just draw Clarkson in. I have a feeling he'd rip this tube in half with his bare hands, just because he'd been disobeyed."

 

Angela nodded, squeezing María's hand once more before carefully climbing over the other side of Edward, the one he'd maimed, to touch his pulse point and wait to feel the slow rhythm of the blood pumping through his arteries.

 

It was perfectly obvious that on her way back she'd look in the room Edward'd been in and see Thomas Barrow, as pale as freshly washed linen, standing over the puddle of blood, bed missing, Edward missing, Angela's guilty face telling him she knew why.

 

"He's gone," she said quickly before he could put anything in, her cheeks burning up, "Gone. Dead. Bled out," she blabbered.

Thomas stared at her, mouth agape, struggling to form words as his eyes filled up with tears.

 

"Where is he?" he asked.

 

"I just told you-"

 

"No. His body. Where is he?" he asked, trembling.

 

"They... took him away," she said slowly, carefully. A triumphant smile almost found its way onto her lips when he nodded, seemed to believe her, and didn't push it further.

 

"He did this to himself, didn't he?"

 

Any thought of any smile quickly dissipated. _"Thomas..."_ she hadn't meant it to be a whisper, but it was.

 

"I know he did. There's nothing else that could have..." he trailed off weakly. Before she could think of what to say, he had pushed his way past her and went into the first room he could find, to collapse against the wall and cry.

 

But Angela, Angela was on a quest - and even if it did seem that her lucky star was no longer accompanying her, she made her way through the corridors, found a cheese sandwich for María and hooked up a nutritious saline drip for Edward. She took both to the room unseen, and it had all went so smoothly, that of course, _of course-_

 

Of course, when she opened the door to Robinson's room, she'd find herself face to face with Dr. Clarkson.

 

She moved quickly, pulling the saline drip behind her, and stood between the bed and Dr. Clarkson as a body shield.

 

She conveyed her stance on the situation with a single word, directed at Clarkson:

 

"No."

 

He rolled his eyes at this, but Angela didn't pay any attention - she looked over her shoulder at María, who gave her a small smile.

 

"You could imagine my surprise," Clarkson drawled, "When I got to the main room to find a bed soaked with discharge. I ask who was supposed to take care of this, and find out that it was you two. But no one knew where you were. Lieutenant Courtenay's bed was in a similar situation. _Vanished."_

 

"Are you going to interrupt María?" Angela asked, not caring for anything else he had to say.

 

"No," he said slowly, "As soon as this... Endeavour is finished, she can take the Lieutenant's corpse to York herself, since that is where she will be given a position, if she wants it. There is no room for her in this hospital anymore," he spoke to Angela, but looked right through her. "Lieutenant Courtenay's brother has got a house there, it was where he was to live if he hadn't killed himself-"

 

"He's not dead," Angela said indignantly.

 

"But I don't doubt the fact that there's a cemetery nearby. His hearse leaves tomorrow morning," he tilted his head and looked pointedly at María, "If any of you are still here tomorrow, I'll make sure you're not given a chance in any hospital in the country, further if I'm not feeling as charitable."

 

Having delivered his acutely pessimistic speech, Clarkson looked at the door, before deciding to speak again.

"You are aware that he may reject the blood? There are certain types-"

 

"I got tested and was written to not long ago. I'm an universal donor, but thank you for your concern," María said sardonically.

 

"He may still reject the blood," Clarkson was quick to shoot back, but seemed to be relenting, "The chances of this actually working are miniscule... The hospital won't have anything to do with this. I trust you'll remove any trace of it happening by tomorrow," he paused and regarded them once more. "Good-bye."

María listened to whatever he had to say and only replied once he started making his way to the door.

 

"Thank you."

 

 

_1925._

 

 

"Hello, yes, operator," Thomas said, "I have to place a call."

 

The future was looking bright. More than, actually, it seemed as if though he would finally acquire a cure for his predicament and all would be well.

 

_"Just a second, putting you through-"_

 

There was a sort of click, then, and Thomas took it as his cue to start speaking. "Hello, I've been reading your advertisement in the London magazine - Choose Your Own Path?"

 

_"I'm sorry, sir, there seems to be a problem with the line. I can't put you through, please hold. I'll get my supervisor."_

 

"Oh," Thomas said, "Of course."

 

 _"Here he is, just a second,"_ the lady spoke, and then the sound was muffled and he heard her speaking to a man, but couldn't comprehend anything they were saying.

 

* * *

 

 

 _"Edward! Edward!"_ Stephen called frantically, running up the corridor as he sought something. _"Have you seen - Ugh - No -"_

 

Edward laughed, sitting in the kitchen of their small apartment and sipping his tea slowly. "What are you looking for?" he called back over Stephen's irritated groaning and muttering.

 

 _"My glasses,"_ he called back, the sounds of furniture being overturned accompanying his voice.

 

"Oh," Edward said elatedly, "María put them in the bathroom! You left them on the armchair last night, so she put them away where she thought you'd find them easily," he said as Stephen walked past him on his way to the bathroom. "Apparently not," he muttered fondly.

 

"I could have sworn they weren't here a moment ago," Stephen said when he came into the bathroom. Coming out of it, he muttered something to himself and pulled out a chair in the kitchen, but didn't sit down. Edward heard him pick up his teacup and take a contended sip. The tea had been brewed by Edward himself a few moments before.

 

"Any good?" he asked, facing the direction he thought Stephen's face was in.

 

"Perfect," Stephen said with a sigh. "When do you have to be at work?"

 

"Seven-thirty," Edward mumbled into his own cup. "You sure you don't mind taking me? I could just take my cane, y'know. I've walked there enough times to know how to get there."

 

"You want to go alone?" Stephen asked, and Edward couldn't discern if it was worry or disappointment that coloured his voice.

 

"Yeah, I mean... I wouldn't mind the company, but I could go alone."

 

"Oh. Oh, we can go together, though," Stephen then said, "I have to post my column, anyway."

 

Edward sighed in relief, "Good. Good. I mean," he bit the inside of his cheek nervously, "I wouldn't want to bother you with anything. You don't have to take me, you know."

 

"Of course," Stephen said, "No, Ed, 'course. I know that."

 

Edward gave him a small smile and finished his tea. When he heard Stephen place his own cup onto the table, he stood up carefully and reached out, holding his hand up until it was met with Stephen's upper arm.

 

"You got everything you need?" Stephen asked as they walked to the front door. The jangle of keys was heard before Stephen opened the door.

 

"Yeah," Edward confirmed, and together they walked out. As soon as they did, though, Edward warned him, "Might take an umbrella. Smells like rain, later."

 

Stephen nodded and reached behind him to take an umbrella from the coat hanger before closing the door.

 

The walk was short, mostly silent, and as always, quite pleasant.

 

After making sure that Edward knew exactly where the door to the building was, Stephen said his good-bye and walked off in the direction they came from.

 

It wasn't a busy day, not for Edward, at least. Calls were being placed left, right and centre, as usual, but only a few required his assistance. A lady was convinced that she could place a transatlantic call, and then called him a multitude of names when he told her that it was not yet possible. Another was righteously indignant when she found out that an operator of theirs had listened in on her conversation, an quite a delicate one at that. _The women that worked there didn't bother listening to anything that was not delicate,_ he tried to explain, upon which she promptly hung up on him. It wasn't, admittedly, his best moment, and the guilt over that phone call gnawed at him until later, when a single phone call made him forget everything else.

 

Their operator station in York was not very big, so it was not hard for Edward to navigate it. Every time he caught the word "supervisor" he would make his way to the source of it, and would take the call from the operator who seemed to be having trouble with it.

What he did most of the time was chat to people who had not yet got a grasp on the whole telephoning business.

 

"This number's not listed," one of the operators told him later that morning.

 

"Ask them for the name and address, and if they could repeat the number," he instructed the operator, and she repeated it into the receiver. Whoever was calling did as instructed, and she immediately spoke it out loud to Edward.

 

"It must be one of the new numbers that's not been listed yet. And if it's for London, why would it - it seems like that's a York number - where are they calling from?"

 

"Downton Abbey."

 

"Let me take this call," he said, and his headset crackled to life as the operator switched it to him. "Hello?"

 

_"Hello?"_

 

It had been eight years. A single word should not have been enough for him to recognize Thomas - but the thought that it was him had manifested itself in his mind as soon as he heard the words "Downton Abbey" - he knew that that was a place Thomas'd been lodging in, and one word in that lovely mancunian accent was enough for him to join the dots.

 

He turned away from the operator who was already chattering to someone else and pressed his headset closer to his ears, as if to block out any sounds besides the ones that came from it. "I - uh - hello," he gulped, "Can you state your full name, please?" he asked nervously, his thoughts swimming about his head. What could he do? He'd thought about looking for Thomas earlier and explaining everything to him - that of course he regretted the attempt at taking his own life, and would never do it again, not only because he still felt like the blood that flowed through his veins was still partly María's and not his own to spill, but also because the time he spent living after his accident showed him that there was a bright future ahead of him, even if he wasn't there to see any of it.

 

 _"Thomas..."_ the man said slowly, _"Thomas Barrow."_

 

He spoke cautiously, absent-mindedly, and if he had recognized Edward he was in far a stranger situation, since to hear the voice of a dead man on the phone was more surprising than just to hear the voice of a man you once loved.

 

"Thomas," Edward repeated quietly, "Thomas, this is going to sound mad-"

 

 _"It's you,"_ Thomas simply said.

 

Edward nodded, his throat closing up. "It's me," he willed himself not to cry.

 

 _"Edward..."_ Thomas said quietly.

 

"Thomas."

 

_"How - how are you-"_

 

"Alive?" Edward said, unable not to smile, even through the tears that had managed to spill. On the other side of the line, Thomas gave a sort of whimper, making Edward's smile widen.

 

 _"I hoped for so long that you-"_ Thomas muttered, now blubbering as much as Edward was.

 

"I'm sorry," Edward said shakily, "For everything."

 

_"This doesn't seem real. You, I can't believe that you..."_

 

"I'm real," he said happily, wiping his tears away. "But you're right - to only find you now, and like this, by chance, I -"

 

 _"I missed you,"_ Thomas interrupted him breathlessly. It was such a simple thing, to say, too simple, daft, really - but nothing else would have captured all the things he wished to say so concisely.

 

“It’s - I - I missed you too. Are you able to talk?" 

 

Thomas seemed to consider it for a moment, _"I suppose so, yes. There was a phone call I was going to make, but that can wait."_

 

"Oh, yes - who were you calling, if you don't mind me asking? You caused one of our operators a bit of trouble," he said softly, "I - uh," he laughed nervously, "Doesn't matter, I suppose - sorry if - if I talk too much - I'm just..."

 

 _"Don't worry about it,"_ Thomas said fiercely, _"You can't talk too much. And I... It really doesn't matter."_

 

"The trouble is, I think I've heard of _Choose Your Own Path,"_ Edward whispered, "Ah - bollocks," he continued in a hushed tone, "I think someone's realized I'm using this to have a personal call. They don't take kindly to it."

 

"Oh, I should probably - could you put me through, then?" Thomas asked, his voice quieter as well.

 

Edward paused for a moment. “No." he then said. "Please, don't do anything rash until I - where are you?"

 

_"Where am I?"_

 

"I mean, where do you live, the Abbey?"

 

_"Yes. I work here now."_

 

"Can I come and see you?" Edward asked then, biting his bottom lip right after the words left his mouth. "Well, not see you -" he rambled on quietly.

 

Thomas didn't give him a lot of time to regret blurting it out, _"Of course."_

 

"Really?"

 

_"Yes - I was going to ask you the same thing. Where do you live now?"_

 

"I'm in York. With Stephen and María," Edward smiled, and then added, in a whisper: "Told Jack to bugger off."

 

He made Thomas laugh and an immense feeling of pride at such a simple feat overtook him. _"Good,"_ Thomas said fondly.

 

"I'll come tomorrow," Edward said quickly. "Oh God, I mean - Can I? I'd like to be with you - I mean - visit, as soon as possible, and María might be free, so we could..."

 

Thomas listened to him speak with a small smile on his face. When Edward trailed off, he spoke immediately, as if to reassure him. _"Of course. I'll look to get the day off. I'd like to see you as soon as possible."_

 

"Oh bugger," Edward muttered, "Ah - I swear I'm not this crass usually," he said through a laugh, "But I'm afraid I really must hang up now. Just one more thing - Is there anywhere I can stay?"

 

 _"There are pubs, a hotel, in Ripon,"_ Thomas said, and Edward could hear the smile in his voice.

 

"Good. I - we'll talk tomorrow," Edward said, still sounding as if he couldn't believe the fact that they actually would.

 

 _"Can't wait,"_ Thomas allowed himself to say. Edward broke out in a wide smile, and bid him a short good-bye. _"Goodbye,"_ Thomas echoed, _"Edward."_

 

"Thomas," Edward said with a smile, wiping his wet eyes with his sleeve.

* * *

 

 

Edward had never used any of his free days, since staying at home while he could have been working only made him feel listlessly idle. Leaving early, after he had spoken to Thomas, didn't seem like too good of an idea - he would rather wait for Stephen to come over when his shift was done and help him get home, no matter how much he didn't need him to.

 

He got home and María helped him pack, and he couldn't help but to ask her to _"Maybe just add one more shirt? I might stay a bit longer, after all, if I'm able to-"_

 

And with a laugh and an "Of course," she packed the biggest bag she could find full of clothes.

 

Edward tossed and turned almost all night, unable to sleep. He thought on the matter, not believing his luck, or how unlucky he seemed to have been before. He fell asleep with his covers on the floor next to him, his head on the hard mattress, and him hugging his pillow, the fear that something will go wrong after all persistent in his mind.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, on the earliest train, they had an entire compartment for themselves.

María was in the seat by the window, leaning against Stephen and looking out at the scenery. Stephen, who had an arm around her, held some sort of book and read it, looking up every now and then to either speak to María or alert her of anything odd he spotted along the way.

 

"Look - look at all those cows!" he exclaimed, astonished.

 

"I can see them," María said through a giggle and looked up at his amazed expression.

 

Edward was in the two seats opposite, stretched out, thinking. Or trying to stop himself from thinking - because even if the thought of seeing Thomas made his lips stretch in a smile, it also made his stomach do weird flips, and his whole body tense up.

 

It didn't take long for the train to arrive from York to Ripon. Before long, the train was stopping, and Edward was sitting up, ready to be led to the bus which would take them to Downton.

 

They were let out of the bus on the dusty road in front of the front lawn of the house. Stephen led the way up to the door, carrying Edward's valise, while María and Edward walked behind him, hand in hand.

 

One of the maids scurried past the front door and headed towards the back, and Stephen called after her.

 

"Excuse me!" he called. Perhaps she had ignored them the first time because she thought they were some upper-class visitors, though when he looked at the way they were dressed, he couldn't comprehend why she would have thought that.

 

The maid turned around and made her way toward Stephen. "Good morning, sir."

 

He gave her a bright smile, "Good morning. I'm Stephen," he said and extended a hand, which she looked at hesitantly before lightly shaking it.

 

"Madge," she said shortly.

 

"This is María," he gestured toward the pair behind him, "And Edward."

 

Madge nodded. "How can I help you?"

 

"We're here to see Thomas," Stephen said, "Thomas Barrow?"

 

"Oh," the girl looked around, "Would you like to come in? Or I could just fetch him for you."

 

"If you could just call him over - that would be lovely, I think. We wouldn't want to intrude - we'll wait here," Stephen said shortly and gave her a small smile, making her look away demurely.

 

 

She hurried to the back of the house, where she entered through the servants' backyard door, and immediately called for the under-butler.

 

"Where's Mr.Barrow?" when she couldn't find him, she asked Daisy, who stood in the middle of the kitchen, pouring warm milk into two teacups.

 

"I don't think he's been down yet," Daisy said, looking up from the tea. "Have you seen him?" she asked Andy, who shook his head, but put in his own opinion: "I think he's got a day off today."

 

"There's some people from town here to see him. Some bloke named Stephen," Madge said.

 

"I'll go get him," Andy said, shooting Daisy one last loving look before running off, making Madge roll her eyes. She helped herself to Andy's tea, without the lovestruck Daisy having even noticed.

 

Andy gave the door three short raps. "Mr.Barrow," he called.

There was no response from inside for a moment, but then the door opened, revealing Thomas in half his Sunday best - his pants and shirt were there, but he was lacking his tie, jacket, and shoes.

 

"There's a man called Stephen here to see you."

 

Andy had never seen Mr.Barrow move with such urgency. Any sort of jacket and tie were forgotten, and Thomas merely put his shoes on off-handedly, and then practically ran past Andy and down the stairs.

 

"Alright," Andy muttered to himself before closing the door and following in his wake, albeit at a slower pace.

 

 

"Relax," María's voice only served to make him do the opposite, "No need to be so nervous," she laughed.

 

Edward's stomach churned oddly, heaving, making him want to be sick. "I feel like if I move, or talk, or do anything, I'll either start crying or burst out giggling," he said cautiously, through his teeth, "Or be sick."

 

María laughed again and squeezed his arm, "You'll be fine. Oh, I think that's him, there!"

 

"Where?" Edward shot out immediately, straightening up.

 

María only laughed again.

 

"Don't do that!" Edward told her, but couldn't help but smile, and yes, maybe it was easier to relax.

 

"I'm sorry - I'm sorry," she said, still laughing occasionally, "And this might be a bit like the boy who cried wolf, but I hope you'll actually believe me when I tell you that I can see him. He's coming toward us right now."

 

Edward gulped, "He is?"

 

"Mhm," she smiled, "Stephen, come here," she called the man, who looked as if he were ready to run toward Thomas and talk to him, congratulate him, maybe.

 

"What?" he said, looking over his shoulder at her.

 

"Maybe we should give them some privacy?" she asked, "I don't think the owners would mind if we had a stroll round the gardens."

 

"What - María, no - I wanna see this!" he said petulantly, making María laugh again. "I've been waiting for this for about ten years."

 

"Come on," she said, and even if he was protesting, he was already walking toward her, ready for her to take him away, dragging Edward's bag with him.

 

"Just stay here," María then whispered to Edward, "Here he comes," she said giddily, and dragged Stephen away, as he kept looking over his shoulder and at Thomas, who was steadily approaching Edward.

 

 _"Do you see how extraordinary this is?"_ Stephen asked María as they descended the grassy slope on their way to one of the paths that would take them to the gardens, _"I could write about this! Can you imagine how lovely it would be to write about this?"_

 

 

Thomas' pace, already quite quick, quickened voluntarily when he saw the pair leave Edward. He didn't want him to stand on his own for long, and so he made his way over, winded once he stepped in front of him.

 

Edward hadn't changed a lot - he was still as handsome as ever, but now with the wounds around his eyes having completely turned into white scar tissue, and Thomas wasn't sure if the smile Edward wore was for him, but even if it was, he could bet that he wore similar ones during his days of living in York. He looked happy, and Thomas could weep with how happy it made him.

 

"Thomas?" Edward asked uncertainly.

 

Even after all that time, saying Edward's own name back at him felt as natural as anything. And when he did so, one of those big, toothy smiles adorned Edward's face, and he stepped a bit closer. He shifted from one foot to the other and his hands came up to touch Thomas' forearms, before he lightly dragged his fingers up along Thomas' arms and enveloped him in a hug.

 

Thomas let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and relaxed into his arms, his shaky hands coming up rest on Edward's back and fist in the fabric of his jacket.

 

"Hello," Thomas whispered into Edward's collar. When he opened his eyes, he could see María and Stephen down on the garden path, looking at them from a small distance, leaning into each other and grinning.

 

Edward responded by tightening his grip on Thomas. "Hello," he said then, and stepped back, though his hands were still resting on Thomas' shoulders. Thomas' own hands came down to rest on the small of his back.

 

"Should we get out of the sun?" Thomas asked quietly, afraid that if he raised his voice, this dream would dissipate, and he's be left standing here, half-dressed, just waiting for Carson to come over and shout abuse at him.

 

"Yes," Edward said, his voice just as quiet. "Could I just..."

 

One of Edward's hands came up to touch his jaw, trace the sharp line of it until he reached his chin. His thumb touched Thomas' lips, and then both his hands were on his nose, before each of them touched their eager way around his cheeks and eyes. His hands were moving all over Thomas' face, and then over his ears and down his neck.

 

Edward broke out into a smile that reached his eyes. "I knew it," he said gladly, and then dropped his hands, one to his side, keeping the other one on Thomas' upper arm so that he could lead them wherever he'd intended to.

 

"Knew what?" Thomas asked, brow furrowing, turning slightly to face the direction of the grove, where he knew that in the shade of tall trees, he would find a bench.

 

"You're beautiful," Edward said, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

 

"Right," Thomas muttered, ducking his head, his cheeks burning up. "Come on," he said as he began walking.

 

"What's the colour of your hair?" Edward asked then. With so many things to talk about, Thomas was glad that Edward started with this.

 

"Black," he answered, making Edward's face scrunch up in an odd way.

 

"I could have sworn you were blonde," he then said, making Thomas laugh.

 

"Disappointed?"

 

"No," Edward said hastily, "No, no - it's just, I always imagined you a certain way. I knew what your body looked like, well - sort of - because when we walked I could feel it. And I always knew your face was beautiful, but I never thought you were this handsome-"

 

_"Edward-"_

 

"Your eyes are blue, though, aren't they?" Edward asked then.

 

"Yes," Thomas replied.

 

“I knew it," Edward muttered.

 

They reached a bench at the entrance to the grove and Thomas sat down carefully, only to be followed by Edward. Edward had apparently sat at what he deemed was an inappropriate distance, so he scooted up closer to Thomas until their hips were pressed together.

 

Reunions were always a bit awkward, even if the people reuniting were brought together by fate such as the pair of them, if they were destined, if a grand romance was about to ensue. What Thomas said next couldn't have been considered the most romantic, but-

 

"You know the place I was calling?" he asked nervously, "You said you kew about it." It might have not been the best way to test the waters, but it was the safest.

 

"Mhm," Edward hummed, _"Choose Your Own Path."_

 

"How, uh," Thomas turned to look at him, "How did you know about it?"  
He brought his left hand up to rest it on the back of the bench, behind Edward's shoulders.

 

Edward noticed and tilted his head slightly to face Thomas as well. "Stephen told me. He works for the London magazine, you know. So sometimes he reads it to us, it helps me with my job as well. Good to know any potential new businesses opening."

 

"Ah."

 

"But the thing is," Edward began hesitantly, "I - uh - I asked him to telephone the place. To see what it was all about. If they could really, y'know..."

 

Thomas gaped at him, "You thought you needed their help as well?"

 

Edward nodded. "But Stephen refused to call. At first I was angry, but they put me off it in the end."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Well, it's not really a 'choice of your own path' if they're just forcing you onto the path of the majority... Ignoring the path nature put you on just to place you onto the path people would put you on against your will. Or something. María'd phrased it better. Anyway, it's not a choice. And not being with a man wouldn't have been my choice anyway, now that I think of it. But still I was, er, interested, and irritated. I told her that she couldn't understand, neither of them could, really - they're together, and they're happy, and... acceptable. So she went to the place, found out about the medical side of it, and explained to me that it's absolute quackery."

 

"Oh," Thomas said, and was for a moment mortified, but then he said lightly, "That makes me look brilliant."

 

"You couldn't have known," Edward said, shaking his head. He placed his hand on Thomas' knee and kept it there. "But I'm sorry that you ever felt the need to change, because you shouldn't. I'm glad you haven't," he said boldly.

 

Thomas' right hand came to rest atop Edward's and he gave it a light squeeze. "Me too."

 

Edward smiled, and tilted his head up and as close to the source of Thomas' voice as he could. He brought his other hand up to Thomas' cheek again and for a moment Thomas thought that Edward was mapping out his face again, perhaps having missed a spot the first time he did it. But then he ran his fingers gently down Thomas' cheek and cupped his jaw. His eyelashes fluttered for a moment, his unseeing eyes closing, and he pressed forward.

 

He would have pressed the kiss to Thomas' chin if Thomas hadn't ducked his head slightly in time and met him there. His own eyes slipped shut and the hand that was on top of Edward's immediately got to entwining itself with Edward's.

 

There were so many things they should have been talking about instead of doing what they were. There was the entire brief-encounters-in-the-night ordeal, the war, the hospital, years of sorrow before this fated yet ridiculously random meeting. It seemed as if their entire acquaintance was irritatingly bizarre, but they can't have minded much. They were together after all of it, in the end.

 

And now they were kissing, with expected fervour, and Thomas' carefully ironed collar was being scrunched up by Edward's fist as he tried to pull him closer.  
By the time they pulled away, Edward was halfway in Thomas' lap. A moment later, he pressed even closer, resting his forehead in the crook of Thomas' neck.

 

"Third time's the charm," Edward said, and it was muffled by the skin of Thomas' neck. Thomas found that it was incredibly easy to laugh with Edward in his arms, so he laughed.  
"I'd wanted to do that since the first time I saw you," Edward whispered, "Well, heard you. That night when you almost fell into a ditch."

 

Thomas chuckled and hugged him closer, pressing them together, their sides flush against each other. "So you do remember that?" he whispered into Edward's hair.

 

Edward nodded, "Of course I do. I thought you didn't recognize me, or just... Didn't care."

 

"What's different this time, then?"

 

"This time? I guess I just didn't care. I knew I needed to be with you, couldn't stand to pass up the opportunity to finally try to... You know. And I had to try - whether or not you cared for me as I did for you."

 

"Of course I care for you," Thomas whispered, pressing a soft kiss into Edward's curly hair, "I always have. I can't believe I thought you didn't know me, then. I wish I'd asked about it, I was so daft."

 

"I knew it as soon as the first word was out of your mouth. I guess if I told you that I'd know you blind, they wouldn't be just empty words."

 

Thomas smiled and moved his face a bit so he could press a kiss to Edward's jaw.

 

"I do wish I could see you, though," Edward said wistfully.

 

Thomas' lips came to rest over Edward's ear. "Well, you might not be able to do that, but you can kiss me again."

 

Edward didn't need to be told twice. He raised his head immediately and pressed a quick, clumsy kiss to Thomas' cheek, and then kissed his way to Thomas' mouth.

 

"In fact," Thomas said in between kisses, "You can kiss me as much as you like."

 

Edward smiled and kissed Thomas one more time before pulling away. "Does that mean that we could, uh -"

 

Thomas looked at him expectantly.

 

"I wouldn't ask this if I were't sure about how much I want you, and it might sound mad, me just coming here and-" he muttered, squeezing the hand that was still entwined with his, "I'd like to be with you more often. Every day, if possible. I was wondering if you would like to move to York with me. Or anywhere, we could be anywhere."

 

"Yes," Thomas said through a laugh.

 

Edward raised his head, and Thomas could see that his eyes were watering atop the huge smile he wore on his face. "Yes?"  
"Yes," Thomas nodded and brought the hand he held up to his lips to kiss it. "Of course."

 

"That's good," Edward said, smiling, his cheeks bright red. "Great, really. It'd all be settled, you know - wherever we go, you could find a job, but only if you wanted to. After my father died, he left the whole estate to me. He and Jack had had a feud, or something, that made my father cross with him, and me the sole heir. I actually wanted to give the estate to Jack since he'd wanted it so bad, but he wasn't interested in anything from me. I tried to challenge him to a duel, then, but surprisingly, he refused," he could hear Thomas laugh softly and it only made his own smile widen, "So I sold it. I'm set for life. It feels quite good, you know. Money."

 

"Surprising," Thomas said sardonically, smiling as he leaned in again and brushed his nose against Edward's, making the man blush more furiously.

 

"Y-Yes," Edward stuttered through a surprised laugh, "Anyway, I'm just trying to sell myself, but it looks like I'm already sold."

 

"I'd take you if you didn't have a penny to your name," Thomas said sincerely, and cemented it with a kiss.

 

After they broke apart, Edward was silent for a moment, facing his lap and gnawing at his bottom lip, and Thomas knew something worried him again.

 

"What is it, love?" Thomas asked softly.

 

Edward smiled, and closed his crinkled eyes for a moment to appreciate the endearment.  
"Well, I live with Stephen and María now, and they, uh, they take care of me. I can do most of the things like eat and dress on my own, don't worry. It's just... I need help sometimes. Especially when I'm in a space I'm not familiar with. I just wanted you to know, if that's something you're not comfortable with, I'd understand-"

 

"I'll take care of you," Thomas said, "That's not even debatable."

 

"You would?"

 

"I will," Thomas said and kissed the side of his head.

 

"I'm sorry if this all sounds so final," Edward said through a chuckle.

 

"Final doesn't have to be so bad," Thomas said with a smirk, "Of course, I'll give you room to change your mind at any point, but..."

 

Edward furrowed his brows. "That won't happen, though," he muttered dismissively, "But yes, I want you to know that I'm sorry if all of this sounds so serious. A life together, you taking care of me, it's... Like you're signing an irrefutable contract."

 

Thomas laughed and nudged his arm, "Would you like to sign a contract?"

 

Edward bit his lip, but couldn't contain his smile. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

 

Thomas seemed to consider it for a moment. "What do you say?" he asked quietly.

 

Edward laughed, all loud and sweet and melodious. "I say I'd like a proper proposal," he said and pressed a small kiss on the tip of Thomas' nose before climbing off his lap and facing front.

 

Thomas was left to stare at his profile, the bright, mischievous expression on his face, his ruffled hair and his flushed neck and cheeks. What he did to deserve to love such beauty, he didn't know.

 

"I'll start working on it," Thomas said quietly, "Edward," and kissed his hand again, making Edward duck his head and smile that wonderful eye-crinkling smile again.

* * *

 

 

He would propose later that year, on a seemingly ordinary October night. Edward wasn't a big fan of jewellery, so instead of an engagement ring, Thomas'd buy him a new lighter.


End file.
